


The Busker of Southwark Bridge

by maivalkov



Series: EngSpaWeek2018 [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maivalkov/pseuds/maivalkov
Summary: The power of music is absolute. It can drown spirits as easily as it can lift them, and it’s what draws Arthur to Southwark Bridge at night, where his beloved guitarist awaits.





	The Busker of Southwark Bridge

 Arthur leaves his office at the usual hour, with the usual five pound note to hand. He curses whoever decided to make the new notes plastic, for they stick to his sweaty palm, and crumple so badly that it becomes difficult to flatten them out.

That aside, he knows precisely where he is headed, for he has walked the journey countless times. The only difference is his newfound purpose, and a fluttering inside his chest as he gets closer to his destination.

St. Paul’s Cathedral looks marvellous as ever, across the moonlit Thames. Shakespeare’s Globe likewise glows in the night, but he has not come to admire either of those. Nor does he want any of the lively, welcoming restaurants which line his path. Instead he walks on, as always, to the archway beneath Southwark Bridge.

Upon arrival he hears the soft plucking of guitar strings, and a melody from a foreign land. A love song, as per usual.

The busker has only been there a couple of months, but already he has charmed the dirty grey streets of London, Arthur included. He’s become a part of Arthur’s evening routine, as do the five pound donations, but this time, when Arthur goes to set the note in the cap, the busker stops playing altogether and raises his head with a smile.

“Evenin’ sir.”

Arthur freezes in his step. He drops the note as if it has scorched him, and lets his jaw fall slack. “G-Good evening.”

“Thank you.” The busker gestures to the hat by his feet. “You’re always giving me money.”

“That’s because you deserve it.” Arthur replies, and clears his throat. According to his routine he’s supposed to run off to the pub next, buy a pint, and sigh over that pretty faced busker. “Anyway, I’d best be off-”

“What’s your name?”

The busker’s smile is blinding. Soft curls of hair frame his face, and the green of his eyes are rich with hope, despite his scruffy appearance. Arthur imagines his life is hard, if the small change in his cap is anything to go by, and yet the idiot goes on as if it is nothing. As if life is more than money, and a roof over one’s head.

“Arthur.” Arthur replies in time. “And you?”

“Antonio.”

Arthur furrows his brows, trying to decipher Antonio’s accent. Whatever it is, it’s lovely, and his cockney English is an endearing touch.

“I’m Spanish.” Antonio adds, as if reading his mind. “Born and raised in Madrid, moved ‘ere about four years ago.”

“You live nearby?”

Antonio shakes his head. His fingers run over the guitar strings, and he begins a slow melody whilst they talk. “My place is on the outskirts, where’s it’s cheap. I work for a coffee shop during the day, then come here at night.”

Arthur winces in genuine concern. Such businesses are renowned for hiring internationally, and prefer to make staff work long, horrible shifts, for very little money. “That sounds difficult.”

“It can be.” Antonio replies sadly, and pulls a string too hard. The noise it creates is strained, painful, a reflection of his mood.

“Why on earth did you leave Spain?” Arthur asks without thinking. “Your talent is remarkable… In fact you should be doing _this_ as your job. Performing on a stage or something, rather than sitting beneath a cold bridge that stinks of piss!””

“Things could be worse.” Antonio shrugs, but Arthur does not see his point. He never will. He’s spent too long at the top, in flashy board meetings and grand evening parties to understand what the common folk endure. His boss also pays him well, so well in fact that Arthur will never have to worry about money. Or how he will survive from one week to the next.

“You deserve so much better.” He pleads.

“But I am happy.” Antonio speaks truthfully. “So as long as I have music, I am content.”

Arthur folds his arms across his chest. Upon closer inspection Antonio looks tired, and he struggles to maintain his smile. No doubt he’ll have a long work shift the following day, and return here to play again. “Music can’t solve everything.”

“But it brought you here... didn’t it?”

Arthur stills his tongue. Antonio meanwhile sets his guitar back in its case, and pulls the money cap close for inspection. “Night after night you visit me, and give more than anyone else. You don’t swear at me, or spit, or tell me to get a proper job. All you do is treat me kindly, and now I… well.”

“You what?” Arthur probes in a gentle voice. Despite his encouragement Antonio keeps his lips shut tight, and softly shakes his head. His hands tremble as he packs his belongings in a plastic carrier bag, then fumbles with the latch of his guitar case.

“Mierda...”

“Allow me.” Arthur intervenes, kneeling down. He places a hand over Antonio’s to still it, but the touch is so tender and calm that it causes them both to stop, and stare at one another in wonder.

“Sir-”

“Arthur.”

“Right.” Antonio swallows. A blush creeps over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, unmistakable in the harsh light of the tunnel. “I-I um… It is late. You must have a busy day tomorrow-”

“I had a friend at University who played music.” Arthur recalls out of nowhere. “He wasn’t much good, but he enjoyed it.”

“That’s good.”

Arthur nods, staring into the soft green of Antonio’s eyes. “He said that music is the language of love. A tongue that can be understood by anyone regardless of age, status, or nationality.”

“I think so too!” Antonio beams. “It’s why I play here each night-”

“And why I walk this path every evening.” Arthur finishes to his bewilderment. “You know I often get invited to drink with friends after work. But I always turn them down.”

“Why?” Antonio gawks in disbelief. “That sounds nice!”

“It’s not for me.” Arthur chuckles. “I prefer to see the real London. Walk the streets, see the sights as anybody else would.”

“Well it is quite pretty at night.” Antonio adds. Arthur agrees as much with a nod, and his face creases up into a smile.

“There’s also this man, you see.” He continues, feeling brave. “A strange, attractive fellow who hangs about in a smelly tunnel every night, playing his guitar. I loved his music from first time I heard it, but I was such a coward I just threw money at him, and walked on. It became a routine, and I… I regret not saying hello from the start.”

“I’m sure he appreciated the money.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur concedes. “Thankfully I found the courage to speak to him one night, and things changed. I realised that I no longer loved the songs, but the man behind them.”

Antonio’s smile drops altogether, and his lips form a small, sweet ‘o’. At first he thinks he is mistaken, that Arthur is speaking of someone else, but the genuine warmth in his gaze says otherwise.

“T-That’s…”

“Let me ask you this.” Arthur interrupts, giving Antonio’s hand a gentle squeeze. “If I were to invite that musician to a nice pub down the road from here, would he say yes?

Antonio gulps, and nods fast. “He would.”

“If I told him to spend the night at my place afterwards, would he refuse?”

“Nope.”

The answers please Arthur to no end. He observes Antonio with utter admiration, and asks his final question.

“And what if I asked him to stay with me forever? To give up his awful job at the coffee shop, move in with me, and play music as much as he pleases. Would he do that?”

The offer is too good to be true. The colour fades from Antonio’s startled face, and he thinks back on all the times Arthur came to visit. How sweet he looked when he smiled, and how awkwardly he would throw the fiver in his cap, and scurry off into the dark.

“You and I are so different.” Antonio exclaims, not meaning to cause offense. “You have nice clothes, a good job. I’m just a- I don’t even know what… but I’m poor and stupid and-”

“You’re perfect.” Arthur insists, claiming Antonio’s lips with his own. Soon after he presses Antonio to the nearby wall, conversing with heated kisses and tongues. Another language they both understand.

It’s not part of Arthur’s standard routine, but then the whole thing has become completely useless. He has what he desires, and that is enough. When all is said and done Arthur helps gather Antonio’s guitar case and bag, and together they walk to the pub hand in hand.

“Just one question.” Antonio pipes up along the way. “To the handsome weirdo who always visited me beneath that bridge. And gave me all that money.”

“Yes love?” Arthur chuckles.

“Will he let me keep that last fiver?”

“Of course, dear.” Arthur laughs harder then. “You’ve earnt it."

  


**Author's Note:**

> It might have been obvious but this story is heavily inspired by the time I spent up in London earlier on this month. You can walk Arthur's route along the Thames, but whilst the buskers are good I can't promise you'll find an Antonio. XD


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